Curse and Blessing
by Kumon5
Summary: Christine is sacrificed to a dragon in a medieval, small-town world, and for some reason, she does not need saving. Meanwhile, Raoul investigates the dark secrets of her past, and Philippe...well, he tends to complicate things...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Sacrifice**

The seaside village had nothing truly distinguishing about it, and nothing much to see except small shops, houses, and a stone square about in its center. Its population was only a few thousand, and its spread only tens of square miles, not hundreds, as the larger cities had.

In this little town was a healer's shop. In this healer's shop worked a certain Christine Daae, who hummed as she worked despite the rumors flying about her head. She lived in the back room of her shop and lived simply and independently. She had little responsibility, and preferred solitude to chattering fellow females. It seemed they preferred it as such as well.

When it came time for the yearly sacrifice to her home's protector- a dragon that kept away strange creatures like Darks and were-animals- she was not surprised that she should be the one selected to journey to the dragon's lair and be eaten.

That did not mean she was not afraid, or sad, or lonely.

It was dusk on the coast, and she stood before the citizens of her home in the town square, draped in the white ceremonial robes and shivering in her bare feet. "We bestow this jewel and its gold to appease the Protector," the town's leader declared in his shaking, old voice, "and this woman to please the Protector." The white-haired man lifted a complex linking of gold chain and interwoven diamond and placed it around her neck as she gazed about at the estranged sea of faces.

"Above all, we send this gift to thank the Protector for his constant guard." Here, the elderly man pressed a reverent kiss to a large, obsidian-looking plate- one of the Protector's head-scales, left when it had flown over the town to frighten away a pack of Darks over a century ago. With his aching joints and rickety movements, Christine was beginning to suspect that the leader, the oldest man she knew of, had been there. The ceremony continued.

"Who will fill the empty place of healer?" The girl looked out over the silent crowd. Not a single person had volunteered who had medicinal knowledge- her former competitors were obviously embittered at the thought of performing her work in a shoddier fashion than she had, for though a recluse, she'd been the best of healers. Then someone spoke out.

"I will!" It was a young man, all light colored: light eyes, light hair, light skin. Christine looked up. This youth, who obviously had no knowledge of herbs or aromatics, let alone medicine, would take her job? Then she looked down again. She had naught to live for, so why be concerned over her previous life? Let him take the job if he so wished. She was going to die.

"Your willingness is appreciated," the leader said, nodding slowly at him, the folds of skin on his face and neck stretching and refolding. He reminded Christine of an old lizard; perhaps one of the blue-grey ones that infested people's roofs in the winter. The thought made her give a morbid smile. She would pass from the hands of one old lizard to jaws of another.

The leader turned to her and handed her a small sack of the finest foods her town had to offer. They were to be eaten by the Protector as well, as an appetizer before it moved on to the main course: her. He nodded at her. "Proceed to the gates. Here, take a candle," he said, "It is dark, and dark is the time for Darks."

She accepted the waxy object and lit it with the torch that had been erected in preparation for the ceremony. The satchel of food was slung over one shoulder, and she began her slow, dreamlike march. More candles were lit, for each person needed a light to protect them, not only the light of others.

Christine descended the wooden platform to the cobbled street, secretly envying the townspeople for their sturdy shoes. She would have to walk barefoot to the mountain caves over five miles of dirt, rocks, and prickling grass. When she reached the edge of the square, she glanced back. The sea of faces had added little lights to their numbers. Every man, woman, and child had lit one. Some had used the same candle of sacrifice for years, and their wicks were near to burning out. Not a soul was sad to see her go, only expectant and waiting for her to leave.

She turned around again, cradling her candle. She looked at it for a moment, contemplating its meaning. The candle was for protection against Darks. Why should she need one when she would die anyway? And she would not escape, either. An escort would be given to her, just to ensure that she reached the caves, safely or not. So, instead of carrying the plain, cylindrical object with her the whole way, she retrieved her personal candle from a pocket in her white dress and lit it, leaving the plain candle on someone's fence.

Her personal light was a rather pretty thing, decorated with shells and glittering slivers of glass. The wax itself was not yellowish tallow, but of a more delicate (and better-smelling) extract of waxberries, and dyed in sky blue with a touch of indigo. It was small, fitting into the palm of her hand, and the lick of flame dance with every step she took closer to her death. The whole thing was kept in a red glass box, so her light gleamed purple instead of yellow or orange.

It had been made by her father before he died, the last bit of him that she kept. It was her dying statement, really.

She walked, passing neighbors' houses and shops, even her own little home. Her windows were darkened now. In the morning, the young man who had volunteered would claim it for his own. The cobbles bruised and chilled her feet, but she kept her eyes ahead as she strode towards the city limits. Behind her, the people sang a farewell dirge.

_Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, sweet one- let your steps fly to Protector,_

_ We will sing to thee, for your bravery- Let us mourn our loss, and rejoice in gain_

_ Protector will keep us safe, sojourn to his cave- Let us be secure, do not go in vain_

_ Farewell, farewell, farewell, sweet one- It is honor to die for your home_

Christine shivered. The song was almost a wail, but they wailed not for her. They were only begging for safety, not her safe return. At last, she reached the gates. There was no moon to guide her steps, only the stars and a dark silhouette of stone against the blackish sky. The last verse of the song was sung, and she stopped, listening to the waves in the distance. They were softer and quieter in reverence of this sacred ritual.

In the lingering silence, one of the men behind her came forward. He was not young, but he had escorted people to the caves in years past. No one questioned his decision. He grasped the young woman's arm and began to walk.

…

They had been walking for an hour now, at a rather quick pace. It was good that their candles were sheltered from the wind by glass panes, for the sea breeze matched their pace and blew Christine's hair about like flapping ribbons. So far, the man leading her had not spoken. Perhaps it was to spare his heart from the sorrow of the fact that he was leading her to her doom. Perhaps he simply did not want to speak.

For much of the walk, she had heard whispers hear and there: Darks. But they would not dare attack when she was so close to the Protector, and holding a light, would they? No. Still, that didn't keep them from whispering the most hideous things in her ears. _You will die painfully_, one taunted, _and no one will be there to hear you scream…_

She shuddered. That was horrible, ugly truth- the worst way that Darks attacked was with their words, not their shadowy, liquid forms that ripped one to shreds in seconds. They relished pain too much to let their victims die easily. Yes, she faced death. She only hoped that the Darks would not drive her insane with their seething chatter.

A gust of wind seeped through her robes, making her shiver, and her candle gave little warmth. The miniscule barbs in the tall grass she walked through cut her ankles and scraped against her arms. Then, what little heat she felt against her skin disappeared. The wick of her candle had been reduced to a smoldering ember swamped with wax.

Her yelp of fright went unheard, for already the Darks had closed in, melding their inky bodies to imprison her. She couldn't breathe, or see, or feel anything but the cold and her own struggling.

Yards away, her escort turned around, suddenly aware of the absence of another person's breathing. In the shadows, he melted out of his clothes, flesh rippling into black and joining the torture fest. When he returned to the village, all would assume he had taken the girl to the Protector, his enemy.

For Christine, the world had been reduced to pain. Her flesh was not mauled, but the pain seeped in everywhere, into her bones and her head, rebounding and growing every second. It was the sort of cold one might have after being numb from cold for several hours. _It is like dying, but the final seconds are stretched out into eternity_, she murmured inside her aching, frozen head.

Everything seemed so slow, and she couldn't open her eyes. Every once in a while, a Dark would dart through her fading form, shouting a pulsing, venomous through her.

_You will become Dark when we have consumed you._

_ You cannot escape, weak human._

_ You are doomed._

_ No one will miss you- they will hate you!_

At this last exclamation, the world turned to brilliant white fire, burning away the deceit and shadows. She felt warm again, and collapsed in the singed circle, weak, with flickering vision. The grass beneath her had turned to a pile of smoldering ash. Her last thought before she lost consciousness: _I should be dead._

A scaly claw reached out and wrapped around the prone girl's waist, lifting her from the embers. The Darks' cold still lingered on her skin like a thermal scar, and the Protector could feel it. The ravenous creatures fled from him into the night at a flash from his fiery eyes.

With a leap and a heave of his wings, he took off for his home. It took but minutes for him to reach his destination and land, hind-feet first, on the worn sandstone. He laid the maiden out on the floor and examined her closely. Her eyes were closed, and her skin bruised and cold. Her lips were blue, too, and about half of her hair had been singed off from his fiery blast. She was close to death.

A rumble escaped his deep chest, and one eyelid snapped closed, clearing his golden eye to see with more clarity. She was barely the size of his foreleg, and obviously a gentle creature, quite unlike the other humans he had seen before.

She did not look like a good meal, nor was she fit for consumption until the remnants of Darks were purified from her skin (not that he would eat her anyway; she was a thinking being, albeit a fragile, annoying one). He would have to keep her warm for the night. Only then would she be of any use to him.

Slowly, almost clumsily, he spat molten stone in a ring about her, making new protrusions of rock where none existed before, like a ring of volcanoes- a ring of fire.

He settled down to wait, contemplating the girl's form through the shimmering waves of heat. From her white robes, she was obviously another 'sacrifice' those idiot villagers had sent to him, hoping for protection from Darks. They were too scared of the dark and everything in it to know it and its weaknesses.

Did they really think him so barbaric that he would eat a human, another sentient creature? Not he. If they wanted to be eaten, they could just throw themselves at the were-beasts and other creatures of shadow and poison.

_Stupid humans… _He coiled in on himself and tucked his nose into his flank. Perhaps his rather unproductive evening of hunting would be resolved in the morning. His scaled eyelids folded up over his hypnotic pupils and he slept.

…

Erik- dragon, also known as Protector- opened his eyes and was suddenly making eye contact with his rather battered catch, the 'sacrifice' from the night before. Her shrilling echoed about the cave and stung his ears, which were folded inside his head under a thin scale. He snorted- of course she would react as such. He was probably far more fearsome than she'd been told, and his size did nothing to deter her fear.

He had to move forward slightly to stand, but the skittish little creature took it as an advance, ran to the edge of the cave, and pressed herself against a cleft in the wall as if that would hide her from his imagined wrath. Silly thing. He opened his mouth and breathed the morning air. He would not let some insignificant squirt spoil his morning.

"Are you going to eat me?" Christine asked, peeking out from behind a small ledge of rock. She had woken early, as always, and finding herself surrounded by a ring of red-hot rocks and thoroughly bruised, had begun to explore as the great dragon slept most soundly. She had abandoned the now ruined food sack and tentatively stepped closer.

She had not imagined that the beast would wake and stretch its mouth wide, a mouth that could swallow her arm whole.

Suddenly the very air about her reverberated with a _sound_, and that sound made her quite calm. It was like the sweetest horn, but magnified, and with a melodic quality to it.

_I do not eat humans. Come to me._

Christine felt herself utterly bewitched. Without her consent, her feet walked her into the open and took her so very close to the dragon. His breath further ruffled the top of her curls. She barely registered the huge teeth that brushed her shoulder as the Protector breathed her scent in, examining her with the sensory organs around his nose and mouth.

Erik sniffed at the young woman. She smelled sweet, but still sick with Darks' flesh wounds and scrapes against sharp things. Perhaps he would keep her in this trance and make her clean his home and all the ticklish places he couldn't reach when he cleaned himself. Yes, it would be work to maintain another being's health, but worth it. Besides, his catch of wild goats and deer was more than enough to feed one tiny human. He spoke softly- he had found by long experience that his standard communication of growling and body language did not go over well with soft, fleshy humans. _What is your name?_

In a rather sleepy voice, she answered: "Christine Daae."

_Stay here. Do what you must, but do not leave. _And he left the cave with a great rattling of claws and buffeting of wings.

He flapped quickly at first, to gain height, but soon glided smoothly, absorbing the sun's warmth. _If I had left her for the Darks, she would have become one of them, more trouble for me and for the other sentient species abroad in this world. Better, then that she should be my slave than an evil spirit. _He was only justifying himself, he knew- he would have kept her anyway. It was quite interesting, to be able to study a human up close without them cowering and running away in fear, even if Christine had done just that at first. The voice-hypnosis was usually something he used on his prey, not something he considered a person.

If he so wished, he could entice a doe to walk straight into his jaws, or persuade a mountain goat that being roasted alive was something desirable.

He preferred not to use that extreme unless it was mid-winter and he was starving, for the thrill of the hunt was quite irreplaceable. It did not compare to flight, or breathing fire, or (heaven forbid) cleaning the dirt, dust, and parasites from his scales. He was by nature a predator.

Below him, a herd of deer grazed near the brush-covered hills, an easy catch.

He swooped down, lighting the brush so that the herd scattered and ran towards the open grass. They were such simple creatures, to be more afraid of fire than the giant flying lizard rushing upon them from above. He snatched a faun from its mother, ignoring its cries. Perhaps he was being heartless, but such was his nature- it didn't hurt to consider that the young mother would survive to have more fauns, possibly two at a time. Then he would have more to eat in the long run. If he had killed the mother, the faun would have died anyway.

He dispatched the struggling mammal with a clean bit to the base of its skull and held the carcass in his front claws as he flew back. He did not like to have blood dripping down the front of his neck, as it was messy, and quite unsanitary if he missed spots while cleaning up.

As he returned to the rocky entrance of his home, he glimpsed the girl. She was directly in his favorite landing spot. _Stupid girl_, he growled to himself, _must I teach her about the importance of landing smoothly as well as how to clean scales?_

He alighted on a patch of boulders and spread his armored lips in a rather bloody, frightening smile. The faun's body fell from his mouth with a dull thump against the gravel and stone. _Well, human Christine, I expect you know how to prepare venison?_

…

Christine had halfway woken from her strange stupor a few minutes after the Protector had left, somewhat dazed and wondering why the thought of a dark-colored, fire-breathing reptile did not frighten her any longer. After that, she had taken a walk deeper into the caves, but found it far too dark to be safe and had returned to the sunlit spaces.

A few minutes later, she had been faced with a bloody-clawed Protector, who _grinned_ at her and asked in his strange, ethereal voice if she knew how to cook a deer.

It was all very strange.

"I know how to prepare venison." She looked at the dead faun and struggled to clear the haze from her head. It was very hard to concentrate when looking at the contrast of golden, beautiful eyes and a bloody maw.

_Take your fill. I am told that humans eat much, and grow little. _The daze had faded somewhat, so she had to know, and asked the same question she'd asked just minutes before.

"Are you going to eat me?" Her curiosity was giving way to a more reasonable fear. Even if she had been sent for the very purpose of being consumed, she was not quite ready to die.

The dragon seemed quite annoyed, chuffing and narrowing its eyes. She noticed vaguely that its mouth did not move as it spoke. _I do not eat humans._ Christine looked one more time at the bloodied body before her and moved aside as the beast she had called Protector her whole life slid into his dwelling.

"Then what will you take as payment for your protection of my village?" her voice dwindled as his snout grew closer to her face, baring just inches of yellowing, bloodstained teeth. "Do- do you protect the people?" She shivered, rubbing her bare arms. The scrapes from the sharp grass itched and stung.

_I do, but I do so with my presence. You humans are so very dense to believe that you would employ me for one small, inedible scrap of flesh per year. _The condescending tone left her rather indignant, but she did not show it. This creature could incinerate her if he so wished- or at least, she assumed it was a male. _You may pay with your services. You will clean me and cook for me. _There was no question, only a statement and order.

He turned about and lowered himself into a sphinxlike position, laid his head down on his great claws, one eye open to watch her. _If you attempt escape, I shall not hesitate to separate your limbs from your body and burn you to ash. _With that ominous threat, the shining eye was covered from below with its scaly eyelid.

Christine swallowed, fear clearing her mind. She could not escape, and she did not want to die. What was there for her except a life in fear of the 'Protector'? She swallowed again, this time to digest that fear. If she was going to die soon, or live alone, she had best get used to her situation.

Instead of troubling her captor for fire, she trod back to the dead faun. It looked sad, and gruesome, with the puncture mark of a canine straight through its chest. Taking a shard of rock in her hand, she silently skinned the little animal.

The once-molten stones that had kept her warm overnight were still blisteringly hot, so with these simple tools, she cooked and ate. But how would she cook the rest of the meat? Would the Protector be angry and kill her if she did not prepare the meal properly? If she asked for a fire, would he burn her alive?

Her eyes turned to the bag of food she'd brought with her, and an idea crept into her conscious mind. She unlaced the satchel and looked at the dead animal again, still rather repulsed by the thought of doing a butcher's job, but took her stone knife up again and gutted the meat. Her mouth twisted into a grimace as the warm, bloody organs spilled out with puddles of blood.

The red fluids coated her hands as she cleared various parts from the deer's abdominal and chest cavities. Then she took a long look at her hands. They looked as if the town's artists had painted her red with ochre. What would her gentle father think? Would he think her a resourceful girl, or find her too base and fearful to escape such a fate?

She pushed such thoughts from her mind. Her priority now was to survive, not to dwell in sadness and languish.

…

Raoul looked around the herbalist's shop and breathed in the smell of the various plants, some living, some dried, and some fermented. He knew a little of what healers did from his mother, who had often tended to his various injuries, but where to start? An entire shop did not come with an instruction manual.

He knew alcohol was to numb and disinfect a wound, so he located the store of mulled wine in the top left cupboards and took a small sip. It wasn't bad, but it had obviously been made for medical purposes.

He rifled through the largest drawers and found that his fingers did not fit into the drawers' handles as they should have. It was as if he was not welcome in the shop, and this was not where he belonged. _But I do belong, _his heart cried, _for as I have loved Christine Daae, so will I love everything that is left of her. I will know her at last._

The day was growing late, now, and sunlight poured in almost vertically from the multicolored windows of the quaint little store. Having thoroughly searched through the front of the shop for all the necessary supplies and taking inventory, his time had been eaten. He had not had time to eat, or to rest, for almost five hours.

It was not the work of a young man from an intellectual family. He would surely lose face in the sight of his father, but he cared not. Here he was, immersed in the life of the woman he'd been infatuated with for most of his twenty-seven years, and she was not here to speak with him.

The fading sunlight caught on something: the metal corner of a black, secure box, sitting under layers of odd baubles. Curious, Raoul stood and looked again- and it was still there, as solid and real as his own hands. _Christine was never quite so real- always alone, always immune to the ways of the people around her_, he thought sadly. She was dead now, but perhaps she lived in her little shop still, where he was with her in a strange, unfamiliar way.

His fingers grazed the ceiling as he reached for the object, which had a thick layer of dust on its lid. It was hidden behind a stack of parchment, so he brushed the ink-stained papers aside, letting them scatter over the simple dirt floor.

The box seemed to defy his fingertips as the dust floated up in wisps around him when he cleared away various useless trinkets. _How many years has this lain here? Is it some relic from when Christine was born? _At last he pulled the stubborn container from its place on the shelf and blew the dirt particles away, sneezing.

The lid was clearly labeled: _DO NOT OPEN_.

_Well_, Raoul thought, _there is nothing to do but open it. I am a step closer to knowing Christine Daae. _It did not strike him as eccentric that he should be seeking to know the deceased.

No, it was not strange at all.


	2. Chapter 2: Servitude

**Chapter 2: Servitude**

Philippe feared for his brother's health. He had been lovesick over a woman that didn't know he existed, and now he had taken a job that he had not been trained for. He could kill someone with his ignorance of flora and fauna alike. Their family was very powerful, almost always mentioned in relation to the town's elders; that made Raoul's slow descent into poverty and madness all the more shameful.

How was he to maintain his reputation when his brother would be the only thing people concentrated on? He had worked so hard to make a name for himself above his own deceased father's, inventing ingenious little devices that did everything from pitting fruits to gliding on the wind to deliver small packages. His large house at the edge of the village was home to almost ten servants, each one paid, fed, and clothed well. Now, however, if Raoul stayed with this dead healer's worldly goods, he risked splitting the community in two over the issues of his disownment.

Raoul knew nothing of his own power, all heavenly powers bless him. He had grown up sheltered, and fed on fairness and morality for years. He knew naught of what he could do regarding control of his home.

Philippe closed the shutters he'd been looking out of and prepared for a day of directing the servants. He was scheduled to have guest tonight, leaders from a distant city who were to discuss the shipment and sale of new crops- exotic things, like spices and citrus fruit. He himself had never tasted a citrus, but they were rather infamous for being extremely sweet or extremely sour.

Strange fruits aside, he had something else to worry about- one of the servants, a blind, mute girl named Ciara was being tormented by the other servant girls again. It was only natural, for the lack of coloration except in her deep red eyes generated a fair amount of fear and suspicion.

Philippe himself was rather curious about her, for he knew nothing of her but when and where she worked in his household. Still, he could not allow any gossip or disputes between his employees. It not only embarrassed him, it upset people and led to insubordination.

He had not experienced this sort of trouble before, thank goodness, but he had seen it happen in the master potter's small factory. One man had been struck on the temple by a flying lump of half-hardened clay. He had not woken…ever. Now the master potter was simply a potter among tens of others, each slightly less skilled than he, but with more business.

He scrubbed his skin with cool water and dressed quickly, wanting to reach the kitchens before breakfast was served. It would give him a chance to resolve the issue of Ciara's continued presence in his home…and observe her. She was one of the few under his command who did not live in the servants' quarters. She always left from the main doors of the large house, carrying a small bag across her shoulders for her pay and the remains of her meals.

The other maids and hands disliked her for her silence, and they had not missed the fascinated way Philippe stared after her, and the way he always had a reason to be where she was. If she was out on a short meal break, just outside the stables, he said that he had to groom his horses. If she were cleaning the various rooms, he would request that his spacious apartments be done first, and early in the morning.

The most popular rumor was that Ciara was secretly a prostitute, and was being paid extra to sleep with her rich, handsome master. Some pitied her for her loneliness, but she never minded it, it seemed. Others longed for her fictional, elevated position, and pitied her for her blindness. Still more believed she was a witch, the kind that cast curses and communicated with the dead.

What utter nonsense.

Philippe knew she was innocent of all these things, and that he had been the cause of half her persecution, but he knew not how she felt for it. She had never showed a reaction to these cruel sayings, or any emotion, for that matter.

He wished he could inspire some sort of feeling within her- fear, or admiration, respect- possibly even the platonic love he shared with some of the maids he casually conversed with. She simply seemed so alone and empty…

He descended the stairs, still buttoning his white cotton shirt and earning several gushing sighs from the women who had already set about dusting and straightening everything from the last night's dinner. He wished they would stop mooning over him, for their affections had gotten him into many fights with their lovers and husbands.

Ciara was going to be in the kitchens, working her thin hands into a stubborn lump of dough, probably one that was to be served at noontide. She would stop to brush her hair from her blind eyes and smooth face, and pretend not to hear the vicious gossip being circulated in whispers around her.

When he at last reached his destination and was greeted with the thick smell of porridge, he was also met with a surprise. Mara, a little slip of a girl he paid well in order to help support her ailing mother, ran up to him, breathless and looking frightened.

"M-master Philippe!" she entreated, stammering in her hurry to get the words out. "I saw Ciara catch a pot!"

"And?" he asked, suddenly wondering why Ciara's catching a pot was so jarring. She was blind, that was true, but she knew her way around and could sense anything around her. It was almost as if she'd taught herself to 'see.' "Pray tell me more, little Mara. Ciara has caught plenty of pots before, I'm sure-"

"I saw it, but no one believed me, so I had to come and tell you-" He was steadily growing impatient.

"Heavens, girl, just tell me!" he said, voice raised a notch. Mara began to stammer again, this time slightly scared of her employer.

"I-I- she- she caught it, but as she reached, her hand- it-it turned black and all…squishy. Her fingers melted." At this declaration, Philippe's eyes narrowed and he brushed past the maid into the kitchen. He wanted to see this for himself.

Ciara was holding the clay pot in her arm, stirring a large portion of thick stew. Her face turned towards him as he came to her and bid her pause in her work. "Ciara let me see your hands."

She obediently put down the pot and held out her hands. The one that had been holding a wooden stirring spoon was clean. The one that had been under the container was sticky with old black grease, the buildup from many tens of meals and spills. Philippe turned to Mara, who had anxiously followed him. "You see, Mara? There is nothing amiss. Your eyes must have tricked you." His voice left no room for discussion.

"Yes, Master Philippe," she murmured, and left to go about her usual business: preparing for the evening meal, which was to be the grandest affair that night. As soon as she had gone, the young noble grabbed a damp rag and gently took Ciara's wrist. She did not protest as he showed her a small kindness by scrubbing away the grime and muck of dishes past.

As the fatty slime came away, he noticed that her fingers were cold, near frozen compared to his own, and darkly bruised. Had she injured herself somehow? As if she could feel his stare, she jerked her hand away as soon as he had finished cleansing her white skin.

A pinch of hurt began in his chest, but he ignored it and simply walked away. He would deal with her personally when he had time.

…

Raoul's curiosity in opening the mysterious black box had been justified. It had contained the journals of Christine's father, Gustave. He had sent long hours reading through them. Most of the beginning was rather cryptic, but he had been clear on one thing: he had studied animals before becoming a craftsman.

His handwriting was poor, and the light dim, but Raoul had managed to make out some words that interested him greatly: _I have a great passion for wild creatures, especially. They intrigue me more than perhaps is healthy. _Now, in the morning light, the young man looked at the date of the entry. It was nearly five years before Christine had been born, or so he figured.

_A learned man_, Raoul thought. _Such a pity that he died before he could share his passion. _It was true, too. He had found many a sketch of an animal's innards- perhaps a wolf or a lion, and once, a were-lion midway through transformation. _Perhaps I can be the one to add his knowledge to our town's library. He was a talented artist…_

Slowly becoming rather bored and confused by the data on animals and the more dangerous creatures that spanned years, Raoul skipped forward- until he glimpsed a sketch of the a dragon. There was no writing on the page, not even a caption. As he flipped past the page, however, the face of the sacred creature hinted at a distinctly human emotion: sorrow. Unnerved, he looked again- and all he saw was the reptile's snarl. _I must have imagined it… _But he knew he had not.

It was simply too odd to have images staring at him from a scrap of parchment. It made him think himself insane.

He skipped forward into the years of Christine's childhood, forgetting the strange drawing as he read on about how the girl had grown, played, cried, and lived- and sang. He recalled her in his own mind as well, for he had been one in her audience when she sang in the town square. He had always left her a gold coin, not coppers as other, less generous people gave.

A light ringing at the door signaled the arrival of a visitor. The visitor, however, was unexpected in his nature.

Philippe stormed into the shop, fuming so much that one might have thought his cheeks smoldered. "Raoul, get your filthy behind out of this wretched slum and do something useful!" he barked, making his brother jump and hit his head against a low-hanging lamp.

The normally quiet youth retaliated immediately, rubbing his head and wincing. The journals flopped to the narrow wooden counter. "I am doing something useful, unlike you- I'm not the one scheduling a dinner party while the people on the street starve! And don't tell me to feed them, because I have no food!" His anger turned to surprise when Philippe threw his arms up in exasperation and said something quite contrary to what he'd been expecting.

"I mean, Raoul, that one of the servants in our- my- household has mysteriously bruised fingers, and you need to get up and do somethin about it! You're a healer, aren't you?" His face altered into an expression of grim amusement. Raoul's, however, broke and reformed into a jubilant grin.

"As a matter of fact, I am, brother dear. Let me pack some supplies and I'll be on my way."

"Good," Philippe replied, terse in manner and tense in his back and neck. "It's about time you started working."

…

Christine had learned that the dragon, her keeper, was a nocturnal creature, but also a very light sleeper. She knew of the spores of a mushroom that could drug one into a deeper sleep, but had no idea how it would affect a reptile with superheated insides. It probably wouldn't affect him at all.

Escape was impossible.

The faun she had prepared was now nothing but a few crushed bones and a dunghill somewhere near the forest beyond the hills, for the Protector preferred privacy while going through the motions of cleanliness (excepting, of course, the scrubbing of scales). He was indeed civilized, but not in a human sense.

_If he has a very particular taste in sanitary business, does he have a very particular taste in anything else? Or is he simply intended for survival, and naught else?_

It was dusk now. He had instructed that she wait until after his hunt to clean him, though she had not the slightest idea of how to clean a scale. Perhaps he would bring her something to clean with other than a sharp, flat stone and her own garments.

Her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Even after drinking the dew that had collected in her clothes the previous morning, she had not had much to drink since nearly two days previous. _I have never seen a reptile drink_, she suddenly realized. All the small lizards and skinks that had infested her shop in the cruel winter had never so much as opened their mouths to take in a bit of the life-giving liquid. _Surely they need some form of hydration… Maybe they absorb it, just as amphibians do._

At any rate, she needed a drink. It was never healthy to go without water for long. The sun was sinking quickly. She would need to drink soon, but who knew what she would run into in the dark caves? Would he rage at her for stumbling into him as he slept? He had shown no anger or viciousness as of yet, but who knew? She had only been with him for a day!

Her thirst overcame her fear, and with cold limbs, she trod into the darkness.

At first, she could see nothing and hear nothing save for her own breathing and steps against the slippery stone. Then, the floor began to slope downwards and become damp. He hands, now invisible in the darkness, clutched at sharp stone pillars to help her keep her footing. The floor and walls of the cave were becoming damp, and she could almost taste the difference in the air around her.

Water was there, somewhere in the underground realm… At last, her feet touched a puddle and she knelt, feeling with her fingers that she had stopped at the edge of a pool. Her mouth greedily sucked up the water, not bothering with the work of cupping her palms to drink. The liquid tasted different, almost bitter, but it was ice-cold and refreshing.

Then that _sound_ came again, the voice that cast a spell over her mind and made it foggy with a narrowed focus on simply listening. It was different, this time- she heard no words, nor did she feel compelled to do something she would not do if she were in her right mind. It was a soft song, one of reflection and stillness, yet the very air and the stones and waters echoed and vibrated.

And again, she wanted to find the source of the music and just stand and breathe it in.

She stood, not bothering to wipe her face, and began walking. The floor turned into a basin, and the basin into a pool. She did not notice that she was now wading in ice-cold water.

Erik, having extremely keen hearing, heard the water stirring gently around him. He thought nothing of it, and continued his humming in the grotto. He enjoyed having the sound bounce back from all the walls. That way, his voice was multiplied into a hundred voices, and each reached his ears with a slightly different quality.

A distinct splash interrupted his torrent of singing. _What?_ He turned, and his eyes took in a somewhat (though not very) surprising sight.

The song stopped suddenly, and the spell keeping Christine's limbs moving broke. Her eyes looked up for a second, and into the Protector's golden eyes. With a frightened cry, she began to sink, unable to move, for the extreme cold paralyzed her.

He knew, in that moment, that he would save her. _Idiotic human woman- she should plug her ears when I am humming._

Christine could only look up as her legs tangled in her dress and the water pressed in around her. _I can hear my heartbeat. Will I hear it as it stops forever? For after all, what reason could the Protector have for keeping me?_ The pressure was beginning to make her ears ache.

Erik leapt out of his place, easily gliding through the deep lake. He submerged, water rippling off his scales. A third, transparent eyelid closed over his eyes, and he searched the dark, cavernous space. There- a bubble wavered up, catching the light from his eyes. He dived, following a glimpse of white cloth.

A sense of familiarity washed over him as he grasped Christine about the waist again. _Must I constantly be rescuing this little creature from everything?_ He ignored the fact that she fit into his claws and that her body temperature was higher than his on the surface.

He rose to the surface again, and crawled out of the rocky pool, the girl still clutched against his chest. He felt oddly relieved, as if he had rescued a favorite pet, or caught a piece of prey that had nearly escaped.

It was awkward, walking back to the entrance of the cave on three legs, but it was not as if he could reach around and place her on his back. She would fall off for sure, barely conscious and weak as she was.

_She will be of no use to me ill either. Just how many times must I provide for her before she begins to work?_ He set her down and considered her wet robes, then decided to abscond with them. She would probably be better off without them, now that they were soaked. With the precision of a surgeon, he hooked a claw through the sodden fabric and tore it from her. It required little effort to roll her out of the cloth.

_Perhaps she will need warmth to dry off…but not from fire. Should she stir, she will be burned- and she is no use to me burnt either. _So he lifted her again, hoping that his scales did not bruise her, and curled himself around her so that she was cradled between his leg and flank.

A gurgle of hunger interrupted his tending. _I must find some way to keep her out of trouble without compromising my hunting time._

…

Christine opened her eyes and was met with the sight of dull black scales everywhere. She was warm, and a hot breeze seemed to be coming from behind her. _What…? _She was dry, and rather comfortable, for the surface she was lying on seemed to be curved to the shape of her body. _Oh._

She had not moved yet, but it had occurred to her exactly where she was. The very comfortable 'bed' beneath her was a hind leg, and her pillow a wide, armored flank.

Then it occurred to her that her robe was missing, but the ceremonial gold chain still hung about her neck. A surprised shriek caused her unofficial couch to shift suddenly and dump her to the cold stone floor. Moonlight filtered into her vision, and suddenly she could see as a filmy, tent-like wing was removed from around her.

She quickly curled into a ball to preserve her modesty. _He must have taken it while I was unconscious!_

Erik felt like using the human expression of rolling his eyes to show his annoyance. They were such excitable creatures, humans. Perhaps their lifespans were so short because they spent much of their time being afraid. _If you are afraid of being so close to me, small human, perhaps I should inform you that you owe two human lifetimes to me. _He lifted his great head and nudged at the ball-shaped Christine, trying to get her to move, like a rolled-up pill bug that has been startled. A muffled complaint reached him, even though her head was buried in her skinny knees.

"M-may I h-h-have my robe b-back?" She felt a red-hot flush creeping up her face. Even if the Protector (or whatever he was called) were a different species, her strict sense of modesty would not allow her to stand and reveal herself unabashed.

A thunderous, rumbling laughter brushed through what was left of her curls. _What use could you possibly have for a wet scrap of cloth? It is not even sanitary now! _A shining orb hovered near her head, curiously eyeing the newly pink coloration of the girl's too-soft skin. Her indignant, stammering reply only increased his amusement.

"M-modesty! I intend to keep m-myself covered in m-male comp-pany, th-thank you!" Christine risked a glance upwards and squeaked at the sight of a toothy grin that seemed to clash with the deadly claws and spiked spine. The resonant laughter continued, and she found herself grinning even though her mind told her not to smile at all. Her own humor at the situation emerged in the form of a bold comment that she would not have made just hours ago. "Tell me, Protector, what would you do without your scales in the presence of a female?"

His clever response forced a chuckle from her throat. He was beating her at her own game! _Why, it depends what species of female. If I were the human and you the dragon, I would not curl in on myself like a Dark in bright sunlight. And I can hear you holding in your laughter, little Christine_, his voice acknowledged, almost purring.

"I- I am not laughing!" she argued, and turned her face from his metallic eye with a teasing huff.

_You are, and you know it. _Then her mind brushed over a thought- he had called her by her name! This revelation spawned another thought: if she had a name, what was his? Surely he was not 'Protector,' as the village people called him. He had a name, but it was not what she had called him.

Erik spotted her lapse in the moment and his chuckling faded away. _What thought troubles you?_

Her face looked into his eye again, seeming nearly melancholy. "I do not know your name. Surely you have a name I can call you besides your useless title." He flinched at her declaration, and stared for a long moment.

Christine felt herself redden again under his gaze. Had she said something offensive? Then: _Yes, I have a name. You may call me as you wish, however, as your life will be but a fraction of mine._

He uncoiled himself from around her, leaving her chilled in the night air, and took off, presumably to hunt. She gazed after him, and he could sense her bewilderment long after he left.

As he glided on the day's residual heat, he found it hard to focus on hunger. He should not be bonding with the human. She would die in a matter of decades, when he would live on for millennia. He would remain young while she withered away like a blade of grass in a drought.

It was not a pleasant thought.

At last he settled on snatching a were-beast (a tough-tasting, half-transformed wildcat) from its own night hunting and ate it without returning to his cave. Being near Chri- the girl would only weaken his resolve. She was different, and did not fear him after he reassured her, as many often did. She was curious- and perhaps that was one of his greatest flaws.

Meanwhile, Christine hunted around for her clothing and sighed when it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the dragon had seen fit to incinerate it. At any rate, she was not about to skip about stark naked. She would need to procure some suitable material and tools, and very soon, at that. Her mind drifted back to his cold comment on her short lifespan.

Was she doomed to a lonely life of servitude to someone who did not want her, or could she find the chink in his armor and become his friend? What a novel idea, to befriend a different, thinking species…


	3. Chapter 3: A Mystery

**Chapter 3: A Mystery**

Ciara fought the urge to squirm under Raoul's prodding. Not only did the touches unnerve her, as she was unused to them, but they hurt. The beginnings of her bruises were on her fingertips, but their true extent had not been revealed until she had been forced to remove the extra layer of clothes by a female healer.

Her arms, legs, and body were covered with the dark purple marks, which were made all the more apparent by her natural pallor. There she stood, cold to the touch, skin marred and dyed by broken blood vessels, and completely, horribly exposed. The healer woman clucked at her.

"Do your man beat ye, dearie?" she asked, rough clothes fluttering about her creaky ankles. Ciara figured she was wearing more than the standard blue healer's apparel- maybe an extra coat against the evening cold. She shook her head vehemently. How could her man beat her when she did not have a man at all?

"Well, are ye usually so marked?" She was an older woman, obviously, to use the more archaic, proper way of speaking. She obviously knew about her inability to speak, and used only the simple, one-word answer sort of questions. _I wish… I wish I had no reason to hide so much. I wish I could be like them._

"Ach, there are no cases for to compare with. Thou art the only one, and I've naught to help ye…" Ciara crossed her arms over her chest, hoping the examination would be done with now. Her hope was fulfilled; the healer started to pack her bags. "Right then, dearie…best get ye clothes on and remember to keep warm always."

She hurried to get her clothes back on. Her father would be most upset at her for nearly giving away the family secrets, but he was the only one she had left to take care of her. Being what she was a hard thing to maintain, and she could not continue in her condition without help.

She loved her life, even if it was lonely. It was wonderful to be warm, and to be warm with the company of others' small kindnesses. It made her warm when Philippe was watching her with something akin to fondness, and when he asked favors of her and slipped extra coins into her hand when she worked harder than the other servants.

These small kindnesses made her life worth living and fighting for.

The door closed, and she put on the last of her uniform.

A knock stayed her hand from again picking up her bag to leave. A rather clean, lightly perfumed scent reached her through the door. _Philippe. _It was definitely not Raoul, for he had spent all day in a strong-smelling healer's shop, where there were smelly herbs and bitterness all around.

Her cold hand grasped the door handle and she let him enter, a little ashamed. Doubtless he knew about her bruises, for it was an employer's duty to know everything about the physical condition of an employee that might hinder his or her work. Her white face burned, and she bowed her head, as was customary, to show submission and acceptance. It was a gesture that said 'you are above me, and you will decide what I do.'

Philippe frowned. It was past her working hours, and she did not have to behave as such now. "Do not hang your head now, Ciara. When you are not in my house, you are not my servant. You are my equal." It was true for they were not in his house- they were in the healer woman's back room.

Ciara shook her head, but he'd guessed why she refused to face him. "Money does not mean superiority. Also, should you believe that I am here to dismiss you from my service, you have assumed wrongly." This, at last, lifted her chin so that it appeared as if she were indeed looking at him. "I simply wished a conversation with you."

…

Raoul had trudged back to Christine's shop somewhat disappointed with the payoff of his first patient. Philippe could not pay him, and the servant girl had little money to spare, so she had paid him a silver coin and a few coppers for his trouble and the ointment he had given her. _Christine would have treated her for nothing_, he thought, privately berating himself.

He looked about him at the fading light and shivered. There had been too many simply whisked away by Darks for it to be safe at twilight anymore. He looked about at the empty streets and sighed. He had heard that the big, lavish cities of the south had their streets lit up at night, with lanterns on tall posts, so that there were hardly any shadows for Darks to lie in wait.

Perhaps he would move to a city one day, to a major trading city, so that he could experience the rest of the world, and not only his cold, small bit of land. Perhaps…when he let go of Christine, and bade her farewell forever.

He rubbed his arms. The healer's tunic was not as warm as he had imagined it to be, and now he regretted not bringing his cloak.

As he rounded the corner, looking across the road at the glassblower's workshop, he saw a middle-aged man walking with the servant Ciara. They did not hurry away from the encroaching shadows, nor did they have urgency in their stroll. The man's shadow, dim as it was, seemed to flicker and waver with a life of its own. Raoul squinted and blinked. Surely that shadow did not contain a Dark…if it did, the man should have been consumed already.

He at last caught a glimpse of his profile and recognized him. It was the man who had led Christine five miles out to the Protector's cave.

He called out to them. "Ho, neighbors!" he cried, waving. "Why do you not hurry? It is close to the Darks' feeding time!" Ciara whirled about for a second, her face frightened. The nameless man scowled at him and began to pull the girl along faster. She responded by almost running along with him, never looking back. Was she frightened of him? Raoul followed, leather shoes tapping the wide paving stones. "Wait! Where are you going?"

They seemed to be getting father away as they ran through the streets. He was sprinting after them, but they went faster still. Every step took them further and further, as if they were flying- but that was impossible, for their feet still stamped upon the ground. "Stop!" he shouted, spotting them duck into a dark back alley. _It is close to nighttime now, should they not be avoiding the shadows?_

He reached the alley and ran forth, expecting to catch the people when the venue reached its end.

He stopped after a few seconds, heart pounding in his ears. He looked about at the three dim walls, two of which were awash in the last rays of the sun. Desperately, he pressed his hands along the bricks. _They must be here somewhere! People do not suddenly vanish…or am I insane? Am I dreaming?_

The shaded wall was cold under his fingertips, and as unforgiving and stalwart as ever. He examined the other walls, which were warm from the sun. There was no trace of a quick climb, and no ladder with which the runners might have escaped.

A bubble of panic crept into Raoul's throat, and he all but ran back to the shaded wall and searched it again. A scrap of cloth pulled away from where it had snagged and fell into his hand, and breath flooded his lungs in a sigh of relief. _I am not mad!_

It was a bit of handmade, finely thrown lace from the hem of Ciara's otherwise plain servant outfit, something she had added on to make her uniform more personal.

He tucked the bit of cloth into his pocket and looked about him. It was almost dark now, so he jogged back to the shop and entered quickly, shivering. Even a lifetime of bearing the evening cold could not ward off the chills of Darks. He was fortunate to be out so late and still left unharmed.

His feet returned him to the shop, and he immediately lit the one lantern the place held with a knife and flint. _I shall have to tell Philippe that there is something very wrong with his servant. He likely will not listen, for he gazes upon her with a special fondness- still, it is my duty._

He replaced the flint in its drawer and looked about the shop, sighing. The place was still so unfamiliar to him, just as Christine had been. The back room held her bed and personal belongings, but he was not ready to take up residence there. It seemed wrong, disturbing her things when she was dead, and therefore to be respected.

The journals he had left on the small counter caught his eye again. Gustave Daae had not been born in the village. This he knew well, for the man had oft been whispered of. A memory from when he was small flickered in the back of his mind.

"He is not from here," Raoul's nurse had said. "And his daughter- she was obviously born here, but from whom?" She had paused in her muttering and given him such a look that he still shuddered at the memory. "Raoul, dearest, she is not natural. Do you know why the midwife cannot tell who she was born from?" Raoul, knowing much for his age simply because his nurse told him many things, shook his head. There were many midwives in the village, but which of them had delivered Christine?

"Because," the old woman continued, "she died but a few hours after the birth, from cholera, rash…and madness."

…

Christine woke to a scraping sound and intense heat. Her mouth was dry and her skin ached from spending the night on hard rock. How had she gotten there? Oh, yes…

The dragon had landed, barely looked at her, and had hummed; and she, suddenly sleepy, was asleep before she hit the ground.

She opened her eyes and sat up, wincing as her weight pressed on the bruises the Darks had left, which were beginning to fade from purple to red. A different weight hung off her shoulders now, and rubbed against her damp skin: a smooth, tanned hide covered her from the neck down, though it was wider than any hide she'd ever seen. The animal had to have been at least twice the size of a cow.

Under the skin, she could feel that her one article of clothing was still missing, so she wrapped it about her as best she could and stood, looking for the source of the sound.

At first, she believed her eyes to be playing tricks on her. A furrow had been gouged out of the stone floor, and from the way steam hissed up and thickened the air it had been melted and then dug out. The dragon (whatever his name might be) was still scraping at the trench, which ended in what could be a pool, nearly her own height deep.

Of course, it did not have water in it yet, since the water was still trapped behind layers of stone. _Why is he doing this? Surely he is not obliged to do such a work for me. _Then she realized- she had troubled him, and all because she had waned water. This was his way of keeping her distant. _This has to stop- I should care for myself, and he should not have to coddle me._

She picked up a fist-sized rock and stepped forward, peering into the trench. It was rough, just as she had anticipated. Maybe it was stubborn, stupid, and childish of her to interfere with the dragon's constructive efforts, but she wanted to help. It was part of her half-finished scheme to become a friend, and she was not quite sure it would work…

Her feet slapped against the warm surface and she knelt, situating herself so that the hide was under her knees as well, and began to smash at the ridges in the rock, to smooth them over.

Erik had heard the human get up and move about beneath the racket of his methodical digging, but he did not stop. Perhaps she was curious again, as he was beginning to see her tendency was.

Then he heard the crack of stone on stone, and a crunch as bits and pieces were pulverized. His claws stopped, and he turned. _What silliness is she up to now?_

Christine pretended not to notice as he approached, even though a huge reptile is quite hard to ignore. His breath brushed over her face as he peered at her work. A patch of the rock was now pale and sandy, and relatively smooth. She ran her index over the new surface, and blew away the dust.

She tensed visibly as he sat and made himself comfortable (for he intended to watch her for a while yet), and sniffled. Then she did something he had never seen a human do before: she sneezed.

Erik flinched back, startled. Was this something that humans normally did? If so, it was one very strange practice… _What _are_ you doing, little one?_

Christine, satisfied at having roused his curiosity, looked up, unafraid, and answered, "I am helping you." Then she went back to hitting rocks against rocks.

Erik sniffed at her. She was beginning to smell less of cold and dark bruises and more of something warm and clean. There was something in the way she moved as well. She moved too quickly, with too much strength for any other human. _You do know, of course, that I could finish smoothing over the channel within minutes._

"The purpose of helping is to ensure that that the other does not take the entire endeavor upon himself," she said rather sagely, nodding to herself. He stood up again and began to walk back to his place to finish tearing down the last barrier between the little pool and the icy water.

He had told himself that he had taken on this project simply because he disliked being interrupted during his baths, but he knew that was not the reason. She had looked so pitiful, swimming towards him in a daze. Now she was trying to help him, despite his rough treatment of her. _Are all humans quite as odd as you? _he quipped, slowly lowering his guard.

"No, not all."

_So you are odd among humans as well._

"I suppose when you say that, you are not telling falsely."

He chuckled. _I wonder how many dragons are as witty as you, human. _He turned back to his chore, wondering at her scent. He had contained it within an organ he shared with snakes, to examine it further.

She smelled of the smoke of incense, and many herbs. She had probably been an herbalist before she had come to him. Underneath that, there was the scent of delicate skin and the meat she had eaten the day before and that morning (when he had brought in a hare for her, finding that he hungered not). There was something extremely familiar about the smell that hung about her. Had he met her before? Surely not…

Just as the water began to flow past him from the depths of the cave into the pool, he realized what he had detected about her.

She smelled like a young dragon, beneath all her humanness.

A yelp interrupted his revelations, and he looked back at the girl in a new light. What strange magic worked within her tiny frame?

…

Christine had never had the luxury of a hot bath before, but now she knew the true discomfort of an icy cold soak in a stone bath. All her complaints about her small wooden washtub at home now disappeared as she did her best to keep warm in the freezing groundwater. It did not flood, thankfully, as she had blocked the canal with a pile of pebbles as soon as it was suitably filled, but that was small comfort compared to her aching joints and numb skin.

She had insisted on privacy whilst washing herself, and to her surprise, the dragon had complied.

She still didn't know his name, and he had only called her by hers once. That was rather unfair in her mind. Still, it was better for her to live out her days this way than to live in misery.

He had disappeared into the depths of his cave again and a faint echo could be heard of his singing. It was not enough to make her lose control of her mind at that distance, but it still sounded beautiful. _I wonder if dragons showcase their arts as humans do. Perhaps not, for dragons' lives are so long, and they seem to prefer seclusion. _She looked down into the darkness and sighed. _At least, this one does._

She had still not been asked to clean his scales, but that was most probably because he had not had a very messy catch yet. Maybe he would ask within a few days, as he seemed to return from some of his cave ventures dusty and even muddy.

Her hands scrubbed at every inch of skin she could reach, for in the water, dead skin became itchy and looked positively disgusting, at least to her. In some places, callouses seemed so thick that she could not pull them all away, despite her best efforts. Working with stone, even for just a few days, had hardened her normally soft hands and knees, and dust clung to her skin from spending nights on the floor.

She would be living a very lean life from now on, only necessities and nothing more. After all, her captor (it was hard to think of him as such after having had two conversations with him) was not obliged to care for her beyond her most basic needs.

Her fingernail caught on what felt like a scab on her back, just at the base of her neck, and it softened in the slightly acidic, mineral-holding water. She felt at it, for a moment, realizing there would be no mirror for her to check her looks, and no comb to control her curls. In a matter of weeks, she would look like a savage from a distant place she had only heard of.

Would she feel somewhat neater if she cropped her hair short, like a boy?

Itching under her skin, she rubbed at the scab until it came off and gave way to a smooth, soft surface. She smiled to herself, remembering what her father had said to her years before. "That is the beauty of nature," he'd said, ruffling her curls as she sat next to him in his crafts' shop. "When you heal properly, you become stronger and more beautiful than before."

And she had believed him, even more deeply than on the physical level. His words were true of life as well, and spiritual, mental healing, even heart healing. She had no true grasp a heart's healing, for she had never loved anyone other than her father. Another startling realization came to her as she lifted herself out of the water and onto the huge hide from the unknown creature.

She would never have a husband now, not when she was living with a giant reptile that would probably use her and discard her body when she died of age or illness. Was it for the best, however? She would never have suited any of the young men back in her village. They were too shallow, too dramatic, and too immature in her eyes. Not one of them had ever caught said eyes and maintained their attention for more than a few minutes.

Hearing the soft rustle of scales over stone, she wrapped herself in the skin and waited. Her stomach was still comfortably full from the hare he had brought, and it made her feel more than a little guilty at the thought that she had eaten most of the meat and left the fat, bones, and organs for her captor…or caretaker.

The dragon returned to his usual place on a particularly smooth bit of the stone floor and laid his long, wiry body on the ground, staring into nothing as if meditating. _He is dusty again, and does not seem interested in cleaning. That is what he kept me for, then._

She reached again for her stone knife and sawed away at a piece of the hide, looking back every half minute at the creature her village had so ignorantly named 'Protector.' At last, a rag-sized section was cut loose, and it was what she needed, though she was sorry to see the end of the leather's symmetrical shape.

Erik heard Christine approach. Humans were so clumsy as they moved, even this one, who smelled of dragon and seemed stronger on the inside than most. He could hear the difference between the balls of her feet and her heels as they shuffled over half-rough rock. _I can hear you, little one._

The footsteps stopped, and he swiveled one eye towards her. _If you are going to wipe the dust from my scaled hide, you need not hesitate_, he said in a slightly condescending tone. He was surprised to see that she had left the giant goatskin behind her, especially since the night was rapidly cooling.

"I will clean you when you tell me your name." The golden eye blinked lazily at her, staying closed for nearly a whole second before it opened to gaze upon her again.

_I am called Black._ Her boldness surprised him again, and he almost laughed at her cleverness.

"You are a very bad liar, dragon. You blinked." He was amused, but hid it and instead used the human expression of an eye-roll, eliciting a quiet giggle from the girl.

_I told you one of my names. In practice, I did not lie. I simply avoided telling you my personal name. _A pout, of all things, appeared on her face as he said this.

"Very well then. I shall not clean you, and you will have to live with more and more layers of dust until- until grass grows on your back!" He took in her stubborn stance and huffed noisily, tongues of flame flicking from between his teeth. Surprisingly, she did not flinch.

_You are not sharing body heat with me until I am cleaned. _Her outrage at this statement was quite amusing, as her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink that was just visible in the fading light.

"But you must tell me your name! Would you like to be called 'Protector' for the remainder of my years?" she exclaimed, almost reaching out in her frustration. "And the remainder of my years will be very short, should you leave me to freeze to death!"

This time, Erik could not restrain his laughter. It resonated throughout the space, and it felt as if the mountains thrummed with energy. He lifted his head and let his eyes blink several times.

Christine found the sound to be powerful, and just like every other sound he had made so far, very beautiful. It was not a woven spell, as his singing seemed to be, but a true expression of mirth. His guard was penetrable, at last! Then he took several long breaths to calm himself. _Do you wish to freeze for one night, or would you perform this one thing and stay warm at my side?_

Erik wished he had not said those last three words, but they had slipped from him against his will. He had not meant to say something that might be interpreted as intimate by a human- especially a human! But she was not fully human, was she? She _did_ smell like a young, healthy female under all the remnants of her human life…but that was no excuse. Was he a deviant, in a strange, perverse way? The very idea caused his insides to churn.

She was speaking again, with more determination than before: "Do you wish for me to freeze to death and never have anyone to clean you again?" He sighed to himself.

_I suppose I must reward your efforts. My name is Erik. _Christine smiled a brilliant, jubilant smile, which was quickly replaced with humored indignation. _What sign or wonder are you waiting on? Clean me!_


	4. Chapter 4: Odd Findings

**Chapter 4: Odd Findings**

Christine gawped for a moment at the sight before her. Upon prying up the first scale one Erik's hide, she had found much dead matter, dirt, and even tiny parasites, much to her squeamishness. "Do you never clean beneath the surface?" Erik snorted.

_Most dragons live in pairs, and can groom each other. I have lived alone for my entire life, and do not intend to flit about looking for a mate. _He shuffled uncomfortably. _However, not being social means that you are going to clean me instead of some…promiscuous female._

Christine frowned. Every living thing needed a companion- her father had taught her that lesson long ago, by showing her a snake and its eggs. She had been rather fascinated, even though she was frightened of the slinky reptile. The eggs were evidence that even a much-feared creature like a snake could love and be loved. "You must be quite lonesome, then." He did not reply.

She wiped at the debris, and finding that it did not come away, discarded her scrap of leather. The slow breathing felt like vibrations beneath her fingers. Her eyes drifted to a sharp, thin bit of stone that had been discarded in the construction of her bath. _Must this dirt be scraped away? _The caking of junk reminded her of the muddy buildup beneath a horse's hooves. She moved away for a moment, and Erik heard her.

_What is your intent, human?_

"You are going to be cleaned, of course." She picked up the shard and selected a large scale against what would be the reptile's ribs. The plate lifted, almost reflexively, and exposed the grime underneath. "I cannot simply rinse away the refuse."

At the first stroke of the new tool, Erik shivered. "Would you kindly hold still? I would not like for you to lose scales on account of my carelessness."

_That tickles_, he grumbled. _And your efforts will not be fully appreciated until you have done the whole of me._

"You complain quite a lot for one who is receiving his first true cleansing in years," Christine commented, poking at the sensitive flesh beneath the hard scale. The whole of the skin and muscles underneath twitched involuntarily, and Erik shuddered, trying hard not to move.

_And you punish much for one who claims only to be grooming._

The bits of dead matter soon began to pile up as she wiped away the dust of the years. Mites and other small things were dropped to the ground and quickly squished, and Erik found himself rather enjoying the feeling of being clean. Christine's work soon spread over his entire side, and he thanked whoever had raised her to be so thorough.

_You do very well._

"Thank you, Erik." She prodded at a scale that was just barely peeking out from under his foreleg. "Now, would you mind lying flat so that I may reach the rest of you?"

He eyed her almost suspiciously. Christine found herself rather dizzied by his eyes. The twists of copper over gold made his irises much like the fabled golden eggs, but with an artisan's decorations. _You cannot climb over me?_

"I cannot reach under your leg, and I highly doubt you would enjoy my walking about on your belly." The light was beginning to fade fast, and she could just make out the smallest scales. Her pale skin was awash in amber light as she placed a hand against the hard, ovular surfaces. His warmth was not like to a roast before a fireplace, but a like a soft water skin filled with hot water.

_Very well. _He gave what looked like a mock glare just for good measure. _I move only if you swear against all tickling and touch of that manner._

Christine did her very best to keep from giggling. "I solemnly swear to refrain from tickling you." Erik grunted and rolled onto his side, exposing his chest and underbelly.

_I sometimes wonder where you hid my modesty, little Christine._

"Oh, 'tis quite simple," said she, beginning to remove more dirt from beneath an armor-like chest scale. "I let it fly out of the cave and into the sky, along with mine own, as it seems I have no need of clothes here."

_That seems fair_, he sniffed, twitching as she touched a particularly sensitive place at the base of his neck. _So indeed is the fairness of nature. Humans simply define 'civilization' differently than other creatures._

Christine took the rest of her time cleaning to think upon what he had said. She had never seen her life and surroundings from such a lens as the one he provided, being another species entirely. She worked her way down towards his tail, almost not registering how near she was to his hindquarters.

Erik jerked away just as she reached his more…sensitive…areas. Those would be for him and him alone to touch, and although his anatomy bore more resemblance to a crocodile than a cat or a dog in that respect, he did not wish to be invaded like piece of livestock. _Those happen to be off limits. You may continue at my back legs._

She looked up at him, questioning. "Why? Have I hurt you?" He gave a long, smoky breath of frustration.

_You obviously used to be a healer, of humans, of animals. Need I explain? I value modesty in touch if not in sight. _Then she realized exactly what he was speaking of and blushed, glad that her expression was not visible in the dim light- or was it? She knew little of dragons' visual abilities.

"Oh. I owe you an apology." She moved rapidly away from his under-parts and began working at the spot on the inside of his leg. After a few minutes of awkward silence, she looked where she supposed his head might be and asked, "Is it uncomfortable to hold your limb in place this way?"

Two golden circles appeared in the dark as he opened his eyes. _No. _The circles disappeared again. _Do you wish for light?_

"Yes…please. It is too dark for me to see." She paused in her labor and blinked as a veritable explosion of white fire focused on the floor near her bath. When she could see clearly again, her shoulders tensed into a gasp. Erik, too, showed his surprise in an unintelligible rumble somewhere between sound and thought.

A pile of dust and grime covered the floor, littered with footprints and here and there, clumps of thick, foggy films. Christine made a face, and her companion swiveled his head so that he might see her. He found it mildly entertaining that her nose wrinkled like that of a rabbit's. She looked at the soles of her feet and made another face. "I thought reptiles shed their skin, just like snakes."

_Some dragons believe that this way of shedding, with assistance, was designed by nature to encourage a lifelong partnership similar to your concept of marriage. I, however, have managed to circumvent that by acquiring your services, albeit for a short time. _The result of his logic almost made her laugh outright.

"Then, dragon, am I your wife?" He could hear the laughter in her voice and see the smile on her lips, and he stiffened. Courting and mating was an extremely solemn matter- but surely she could not know this, having lived in her small human world for most of her life! He decided to let her unknowing offense pass.

_You are a different species, and live for quite a shorter period than I. And, should I ever try to groom you, my claws would flay your flesh from your matchstick bones. _He nudged her warm, small body with the tip of his nose, so close that he was able to see individual pores in her thin skin. She laughed and placed her hand against his muzzle to regain her balance.

He watched a curious change come over her. It was different to touch him when she did not have to, at least in her perspective. She timidly drew back and suddenly found her feet very interesting. He sniffed. _What is your matter?_

Her answer surprised him. "I do not know much about the ways of your kind. What if I were to meet another dragon, and spoke of something that embarrassed you, or was very rude to him or her?" She looked down again. "What if I have said aught to offend _you_?"

_If ever you have said as such, I would have alerted you. But you have not, and only slipped in your forgivable ignorance. As for meeting another dragon, that is highly unlikely. I am considered antisocial among even my own people. _This only seemed to agitate her more.

"If I am to live with you, I should know your ways, and the ways of others!" Her eyes met his, and he considered their blue coloration in return, vaguely noting the flecks of silver in them.

_As you wish then, human. I will tell you about culture, but it will not be even slightly like yours. By the way, you are quite possibly the most argumentative creature I have ever met._

…

Ciara had listened from the rooftop, and had heard Raoul go after he plucked the piece of her skirt from the wall. How could she be so foolish? She had almost revealed her secret in her haste, and had left him something that would most probably cause him to point her out as a criminal!

Now sitting in her little shed, she wept. Her father had been so wrathful that he'd killed her pet, a little kitten that slept next to her and ate the mice in her infested dwelling. He lived elsewhere, outside the town, and had left after rebuking her.

_I might be dismissed from Philippe's service. After all, what is my meaning to him compared to the word of his brother? And to be dismissed from his service negates my reason for existing as I am._

She recalled the 'conversation' she'd had with her master before leaving for the edge of town. He had asked after her life outside work, and questioned her about the stinging gossip the other servants circulated about her. It was as if he truly cared- or was that his standard procedure for one under his care who had need of a healer?

The young woman sighed, at last wiping away the hot tears that chilled her cheeks in the drafts. What use was it to wonder when she would receive her answer the next day? The answer would either save her life or end it. What would she do if she were dismissed? She would live with her father then, give in to his wishes, and become as he was.

She would be a mindless, heartless creature who lived only to consume. She would become a Dark, as her father was, and his father before him, and their ancestors before that. What an unpleasant thought, to be ripped from her human life and the memory of her sweet mother.

Her long, bruised fingers clutched at her thin arms. She could sense the mice around her, but they did not scare her. They were only going about their nightly business of surviving and nesting in the straw that covered her floor. The money that she earned went to her father, so that he could remain hidden as a respectable, hardworking man. She was like the mice, only surviving. She could feel one tugging at the hem of her skirts with its small weight as it clawed its way into her lap.

They were always like this, the animals. They did not fear her as they did her father, or the full-blood humans around her. She let her index stroke the mouse's ear, listening to the small squeaks and chitters of its brethren and cousins. Perhaps it was because she was not human, not a destructive, oblivious creature, and she was not a Dark, a malicious spirit feeding on souls, and energy.

She was somewhere in between, as her mother had been human. Ciara, caught between human and another species (if one could call it that), had been born with her disabilities and coloration, but also with a wondrous power. It was a power that had spawned all the rumors about her being a witch.

The mouse stepped onto her waiting hand, and from there, scrambled up to her shoulder. Ciara smiled through her sorrow. _You and me, mouse, we live here, and we will stay, won't we?_

The mouse was accepting of her idea, and nosed along her neck, whiskers whipping over white, translucent skin. _I cannot leave. I cannot, when Philippe should care for me so, even just a little. Don't you agree?_

The tiny mammal paused, then seemed to lose interest and scurried down her arm to the floor again, and disappeared into a crack in the wooden wall. The scratching of its little claws echoed in the silence of both her personal night and the night around her. She projected her thought after her small friend. _I apologize. I meant not to tire you. _She could sense the rodent's industrious need to gather seeds and grasses for its family and its regard for her as a small distraction. It irritated her somewhat.

The mice were always too busy for a proper conversation. Her kitten had been simple-minded, but engaging and interested in all that she did. Her kitten had cared for her in his silly, opportunistic way.

Now it felt as if she had not a true friend in the world. She could not go to Philippe for help- her father would kill him if he knew she cared for him, for he wished her to become a full Dark, not a 'weak bastard child with no taste for what was good and right.' She could not seek help from her Dark relatives, because they were likely out hunting for unfortunate souls, and a few had even made it clear to her that they wanted her dead, because she polluted the purity of their line. She did not even have her pet anymore.

Oh, to be human! Then her father about being a half-breed could not harass her. Then she could speak to Philippe, she would be pleasing to the eye (for her oddities stemmed from her parentage), and she would have no bruises to show her Dark heritage.

But alas, this was not possible, not that she knew. As a half-Dark, she knew the laws of nature. Everything, no matter how sweet or ordered, always decayed into corruption and death. The same was true of her. It was not possible to become fully human.

She sat on her straw-strewn floor and laid her head on her knees, tired. The sounds of the creatures about her kept her alert for minutes, but at last, she entered dreamland. It was a dreamland full of happiness, light, warmth, and it contained Philippe and his kindness. She did not wish to be waked from her sleep.

…

Philippe inwardly grimaced at the people around his table. They were all very strangely dressed, but he supposed that was because they had adopted some of the clothes of eastern traders. They had come for a business dinner, as arranged, and his dining hall had been appropriately furnished.

They were clad in gold and purples, fine silk and soft linen, and had probably had years of experience walking in robes and loose-fitting desert-suited clothes. Precious metals practically dripped from ears, lips, noses, limbs, and fingers.

He was not sorry for being late, as his lateness had been due to his visit to the healer's with Ciara. He had explained his excuse, but now they had made that the subject of their talk, and how shameful it was for him to be on the level of his servant. "Oh, it is admirable of you to care so much- but you would lose face in any other place," one woman was saying. Her painted and heavily pierced face was supposed to show status, he supposed, but to him, it only showed ostentation and conceit. "Of course, your customs must be…_different_…here."

He ground his teeth in frustration. These traders called themselves civilized, and yet they thought kindness an embarrassment and had practically insulted his entire family by saying that the mercy he had been taught was lowly. "Of course my town is different, most honorable guests; however, let us no more dwell on past matters, but what we are gathered here for." These were obviously the sort of merchants that bullied provinces and cities into submitting to their sales, their policies, and their laws through maneuvering and blackmail. He was only trying to change the subject and politely control the discussion.

"Of course," the woman said, "let us talk of the spices first."

The discussion went adequately for the rest of the evening, but Philippe struggled to keep his composure. Each person, man or woman, old or (to his annoyance) young, had something to say for his or her cause and against his. It was as if they were all teaming up against him to raise prices and undermine his authority. A roguish young teen had winked at one of his maids, earning an extra goblet of mead and a shy blush. This gesture tested his will.

He had always to keep in the front of his mind that respect was a necessity, and that he was not to criticize the customs of these wandering traders. Their culture was different, and perhaps not admirable in his world, for he had yet to peek into their moral core.

Still, they urged him almost to his limits.

When the dinner was done and all envenomed pleasantries exchanged, they had settled the price on five silvers per measure- too high for many of the villagers to pay, and too low for the merchants to be truly content. Perhaps they catered only to the wealthy.

Slowly, they left, bowing as they went in a mockery of respect. The last one out, the flirtatious adolescent, threw him a cocky wave, and he ground his teeth once more. He had been as such once, when he had been younger, and now he knew why some elders disliked him still.

That reckless spirit had been cured by the arrival of Ciara. It had been his mother's idea to make him give the girl a tour of the home as best he could and outline her duties. Then, almost without his noticing, she had become a young woman, and her body and face had been stretched like putty into a form pleasing to the eye, instead of a gangly composition of skin and bones.

Now, though, she was troubled. Had she been beaten? Or had she fallen someplace rocky and bruised herself? Had it aught to do with her father? His heart ached for her pain.

…

Raoul's searches of Gustave's journals revealed very little of what the man had done before arriving at the town. His activities were always very vaguely mentioned, and sometimes concealed with drops of ink, as if to purposely ruin the papers. It was really rather frustrating.

Some of the paper had been torn out, and the missing pages were nowhere to be found. His head stung from his having scratched it in confusion so many times, and his fingers were dry from holding the parchment so long. His back ached from sitting on the stool without support, and now he felt a headache coming on.

So, because of all his trouble, he decided to reward himself by eating out at one of the few restaurants in town (mostly because he had no idea how to cook, but we must digress). It was a struggling restaurant, as the custom had only just been adopted, and they had not much to offer other than what people cooked in their homes every night.

He gathered his cloak about him and lit a lantern for protection against Darks, and stepped out into the cold. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness around him, and he walked up the street, holding the lantern high so that his light would have a farther reach. _The place cannot be far from here_, he said to himself. _I was there just weeks ago, and the streets looked as they do now._

His efforts were sorely disappointed. The restaurant was nowhere to be seen.

"Ho, Raoul!" Surprised, he turned. It was an old woman, one who seemed familiar. Her age-lined face was serious, making the folds around her lips and neck deeper. She carried a lamp like his in her left hand, and in her right, a basket of tinder and various-sized sticks. "I have aught to do with thee and thy residence."

Raoul approached, curious. "What is your matter?" he queried. "And why are you carrying so much wood?" She watched his face carefully, reading him as he had read the journals.

"Have ye found the journals?" The young man gasped, eyes wide.

"How do you know about them? I thought a journal was a private thing, especially for such a man as-" He stopped, suddenly suspicious. "What do you want?"

The old woman sighed. "I want what is best for ye…and for all. There are some things better left in ignorance." She began to walk in her hobbling step again, sliver hair reflecting golden firelight. "We must destroy those records."

Raoul's mouth opened, but she spoke again: "I ken ye, boy. You are too inquisitive for your own benefit."

"But why must you destroy the journals? Are they not valuable, and full of information that could be kept in the library of Alexandria?" He kept pace with her, noting that she was headed directly for the shop he had just left.

"They are perilous, boy. If you wish for the knowledge, you may keep it, but aught else of them…they are accursed."

"What?"

"I intend to burn them to ash whether you consent or not." He blocked her path, stepping to the side as she did so in an attempt to pass.

"I intend to keep you here until you tell me what in heaven's name is going on!" he defiantly exclaimed, "And I cannot in good conscience let you burn aught that another man has writ!"

Her old, nearsighted eyes burned into his. Then, she did what he least expected. She bowed her head and breathed out a long, shaky exhalation. "I suppose ye deserve to know, then, being his daughter's would-be suitor."

Raoul let his dominant stance falter. "What is there to know? I found nothing in those papers."

"Swear unto me with your most solemn oath that ye will not tell what I know."

"I swear," he said without hesitation.

"On what do ye swear?" the lady persisted.

"I swear on my love for the now-deceased Christine Daae." She gave him a curious look, one eye on his face.

"'Tis a dangerous thing to swear upon, boy. Ye best not swear upon love for _her_. Ye'll be accursed too." He thought on this for a moment. Was this some superstitious old wench who was half-mad in her senility? Or did she truly know something of what she spoke? If not, how then did she know of the journals? She still had not answered him that. "I will answer all if ye let me in at your shop."

He did a double take. Perhaps she was simply experienced in watching faces. "Very well," he said at last. "What will you do, after that the paper have been destroyed?"

"I will die," she said very seriously. The boy held back a chuckle. Perhaps she was mad after all. And if she did anything too insane, he could easily overpower her and force her away.


	5. Chapter 5: Beginning

**Chapter 5: Beginning**

Erik watched the girl sleep tucked against his side and laid his head down at last. He did not need to eat very much, having had that large deer earlier, but the human seemed to hunger every few hours, at least twice a day. Perhaps it was because human digestive organs were smaller and their bodies less efficient than those of dragons. Still, it was not something he was used to, going hunting every day.

He had spat a little fire into Christine's bath, and dragon fire, magical as it was, burned long and on whatever it landed without consuming it if he wished, even water. It was his consideration towards his little friend, and he ignored how disturbing it was that he should be going out of his way so that she might live comfortably. He had even gone out and gathered bunches of fruits and various edible plants, and stored them in a cold cavity in the back of his home.

A disturbance in the air reached his ears, and a distinctive scent of pungent spices made his nose itch. _Of course he would choose now to disturb me_, Erik grumbled to himself. _Nadir never had any sense of good timing._

Christine mumbled and shifted in her sleep, as if she could also sense the impudent Persian dragon's arrival. Said dragon glided into the cave with a rather smug expression on his wispy-mustached face and coiled himself into a stack of gaudy orange and green scales. _I know you do not sleep, Erik. Raise your head and tell me what possessed you to acquire a human, of all creatures!_

Erik opened one eye and twisted his muzzle into the shape of a half-snarl, but Nadir did naught but chuckle and snake forward to nudge his friend in the ribs. _It has been a mere two years since I saw you last, wingless fool. Can you not place a more reasonable amount of time between your invasions of my life?_

Christine blinked slowly, confused. "Erik- oh!" She curled in on herself and tucked her head to her knees. Erik wanted to flay Nadir's side open for waking the girl. Nadir, as if reading his thoughts, gave him a saucy look and proceeded to address the little human.

_Good evening to you, human. You may know me as Nadir the Great and Terrible-_

Erik decided to cut him off before he could give a dissertation on his many titles. _You mean, Nadir the Egotistic and Annoying._ Christine laughed and stood up, withdrawing her body heat from Erik's side. He tried to pretend he did not miss the small amount of weight and heat. It was startling, the contrast between his cool scales (despite his core body temperature) and her warm skin. Nadir gave him a side-glance and the barest hint of a wink.

"Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, O Egotist," she said with an exaggerated nod, and made a slight bow. What once Erik considered annoying he now thought of as a frustrating distraction. It irked him that he should be…envious, dare he say? - Of Christine's company and smiles. Nadir's presence and knowing looks were not helping in the slightest. It was all-out ridiculous as well; that she should be immediately charmed by the forward, brazen Nadir when it had taken him days to earn her trust!

_Now that we are all acquainted, I suggest you leave, Nadir, before Christine in her ignorance of our ways offends your sensitive ego, since you are now The Egotist. _Christine seemed to find ever more humor in his statement, and launched into a full, ringing laugh.

Nadir's countenance fell almost immediately, and Christine's laugh faded as she sensed solemnity fill the air. The Persian dragon's red eyes looked balefully down at her. _It is not a matter for human ears, though I have no doubt that the matter concerned is beyond your comprehension in any case. _Erik growled, sending shivers down the girl's spine. The wispy hairs along Nadir's spine seemed to stiffen and stand out, and he almost visibly flinched.

It had been quite some time since he had heard Erik snarl like so, and he had forgotten how terrifying his long-time ally could be. Perhaps it was bad for his health for Erik to be in possession of a human, as he was obviously quite protective of the little creature.

Erik glared mercilessly at his slinky friend. _Christine will hear the matter. She is as clever as any conscious being and sometimes- _here he glided almost silkily over to Nadir's narrow snout- _wiser than certain Asiatic persons in this general area._

Christine shivered again. He would defend her so much before one he had obviously known for far longer than she? How had she earned such protection?

Nadir was forced to look away and muttered softly, _Yes, yes, very well…_ He did not push Erik further by pointing out that it was beyond strange for him to keep a human anyway, though it did occur to him. _The council meeting is this full moon. Have you forgotten? _The other reptile radiated displeasure while Christine sat and listened.

_I never forget,_ Erik said.

_You must bring the human with you. She is one of the subjects of discussion._

_ Her, or my keeping her?_

_ Both. _Nadir's fuzzy ears tipped themselves down and laid flat in fear as black smoke and cinders poured from between yellowing, bared teeth. The girl huddled between the two giants swallowed. If she could not stay with Erik, where would she go, naked and starving? She could not go back to the village, and she could not walk all the way to another city in such a condition, not with winter coming. Her friend was obviously incensed at the idea himself.

_You are still a very amateur liar, Nadir Khan. _This was spoken softly, but laced with a threat. At this declaration, both dragons looked at Christine, who decided in the back of her mind that gold was a much more beautiful color than red for eyes. At the forefront of her mind, however, was the very unnerving stare directed at her and what it could mean.

_I will return for you on the night appointed, then. As much as you dislike the company of the council, this matter could not wait- not when it is unhealthy for you to keep a pet such as she. _With that, he unwound his long, snaky body and slunk out of the cave.

Christine, still mesmerized by the metallic lights in her dragon companion's eyes, breathed slowly until the last trace of orange and white fluff disappeared into the sky.

"Will I have to leave?" The words traced vapor into the air, and it smelled of the smoke of incense to Erik. He paused to take in the scent before formulating an answer.

_No. I will not let them force their rules on me, for I never have. You are too useful to me. _He also took into consideration their fast (in more ways than one) friendship.

"I will have nowhere to go if they take me away." _And in any case…I do not want to leave, not even if I could continue life as a healer in the village. It was too lonely. _This conclusion startled her. She had not had a true friend since her father.

_You will always have a place to stay here, even if it is not your home. _The once angry eyes were solemn and gentle now, and did not match with the fearsome claws and spiked head. It was a comparison that struck her as revealing, and deep.

"Why would they want to take me away?" She touched the dark scales of Erik's nose and marveled at the soft, even texture. "Why is it so…displeasing that we should have a bond such as we do?"

_Many of my kind are purists, and consider any other species inferior. They believe that I am deranged, or at least strange, which, in reality, is not far from the truth, _he mused. _It has been a long evening. Nadir always did have horrid timing. _He huffed slightly, hot air wreathing Christine's torso like a quilt. _You should sleep. _Her reply was soft, but as clever as her former banter.

"You should sleep as well." Her hand caressed the side of his jaw, and her eyes, as he saw them in that moment, were like two drops of molten silver. Had they changed color since he'd examined them last?

_I do not need to._

"Yes, you do." And in that moment, he felt exhausted. It had taken someone else to notice his fatigue. His bones were tired of supporting the rest of him. He had not slept for nearly a whole day.

So he lay down and kept his head tilted towards the girl as she settled herself next to him. It felt so natural to her, this way of life. If it did not, she would have attempted to escape, or killed herself- one of those things humans did that he never understood.

This time she curled into a ball with her back to his nose, head cushioned by a loop of whip-like tail. The bones of her spine made small bumps from the base of her neck to the small of her back. It was an interesting pattern to him, mostly because for once, the similarities between dragon and human physiology could be seen.

Her ribs rose and fell the same way his did, with the bellows of his lungs, and she had a heartbeat like his that he could feel slowing as she slept. Her shoulder blades, too, were like his, but missing the wings and muscles attached.

As his eyes drifted closed, he thought he saw the hard glimmer of armor along her spine…but blinked and perceived only the reflection of fire on soft skin.

…

Ciara paged through the book of spells she had found in the shop with help from its keeper, but without luck. To her wandering fingers the tome was just a stack of dusty, fragile sheets.

Her hope had been restored after seeing the blemishes and rashes erased from a young girl's skin. If the very nature of one's skin could be changed, why not all of oneself?

It was early morning, and not wanting to attract attention from those who knew she was blind, she had come before most of the customers would arrive.

A warm hand touched her shoulder, and she jumped. "You could not be reading- what are you doing here? Is that for someone else?" It was Philippe, he who smelled of cleanliness and the smallest hint of mint. Perhaps he'd had only a cup of tea that morning. "Please, be at ease; I am here for a book, like you." She ducked her head, feeling a flush come over her.

He continued as if nothing was wrong. "Would you like me to read the book for you, so you may know what it holds?" Philippe noted the title with interest: _The Magic of Change, Medicine, and Fortune_.

She nodded shyly and awkwardly held the book out in his general direction, not wanting to have to place it directly into his hands. The warmth of sunlight made her blush more profuse, but he kindly ignored it. _She looks rather nice when she turns pink. _He took the book from her and flipped to the table of contents, but his eyes strayed to her again and again as he read. "You wish for healing?"

She shook her head, and he had to clench his fists to keep from brushing the white hairs from her eyes, for that would inevitably lead to touching her face…and he might not be able to restrain himself from there. "What about the changing spells?" Her chin dipped in a small nod.

He began reading through the subheadings in dark ink. "Old to New." No. "Fair Skin." Most emphatically no. He smiled to himself and had to hold back a chuckle. She would not need lighter skin, would she?

"Table Scrap to Banquet?" No again. But then she didn't eat much, did she? "Tidiness, perhaps?" Still no affirmative. "Weight Loss-" He was almost cut off from the haste with which she refuted that particular choice. "Of course. I did not mean to offend you. What about Color?"

She paused for a moment- that was a spell that would benefit her, if not change her for good. Then she shook her head yet again. Having never experienced color, she could turn herself something wholly unattractive- like that shade called bright orange. Philippe flipped the page- it was blank. "That is all there is in this book. Would you like me to find you another?"

Ciara could hardly contain her smile, but she had to shake her head yet again. Did he not have more important things to do than help her? He had a household to run, and she had to return to work under his supervision, as always. She backed up and stumbled into the shelf behind her, motioning for him to leave, but he could see she did not truly wish him to leave. "You are clearly smiling," he teased, grinning himself. "Here," he said, picking another book from the columns of processed wood and hide, "this one. _Spells for the more Advanced Magician._"

They searched that book as well, more laughing at the odd titles than looking for a solution to a problem. They were enjoying themselves too much.

A maid, little Mara, walked by the shop and stopped to stare at the two, eyes large and round. It was almost time for the households all over town to wake and begin their daily business, but here was Philippe, the master of the house, talking and laughing while Ciara smiled as if smiling was an action she was accustomed to. When she was with him, her smiling was easy and natural.

It was obvious even to the young girl that they were very much in love.

She decided to keep her mouth shut about it, though. After all, if she had a sweetheart, she wouldn't want to be the subject of gossip for weeks on end?

…

Raoul blinked and then winced. A large bruise covered his eyebrow and a portion of his forehead. And how had he ended up on the floor? He had been listening to the old woman explain about the journals, and- oh.

He sat up and rubbed the sore spot on his head, and hissed. The old lady had a very good aim with that basket.

The ashes of the kindling drifted towards him through rays of late morning sunlight, and he scrambled to his feet, panicking. Where were the journals? He looked about, at the counter, and the floor, and- there they were, in the woman's wooden basket, dusted off, but still old and still in existence, thankfully.

Hadn't she come to burn them? Or had she decided it was too much trouble after she had revealed her information and he had wanted to keep them anyway?

Christine. She had been such a mystery, but a beautiful, gentle, kind one. Now, though, he frowned. Her birth had been…unnatural. Who was her mother?

_She was of woman born_, the strange old woman had said, scowling into the fire. _She was hatched_. He shivered. Was it possible to craft a human through spells and enchantments? What if Christine was the product of alchemy, a science banned because of its violation of life's laws? What if she was really a transformed pile of odd materials and the borrowed life of some poor animal?

He shook his head and tried to clear his mind. He was getting ahead of himself. There had to be some explanation for the secrecy of the birth.

Why was he searching for answers about a dead woman, anyway? Was it to know and love someone already lost? Or had curiosity just taken over the rational side of his mind? There were too many questions.

He picked the stack of papers up, but it slipped from his fingers, splattering and folding on the dirt floor. A scrap of parchment, one newer and lighter than the other pages, fluttered out of the book and to the floor. He snatched it up, eagerly turning it over to read whatever it might hold. Had that infernal hag left him a note?

It was blank.

He turned it over again and looked for folds that might hide writing, but it was no use. It was blank, simply torn from some other page for use as a marker. A marker… He almost hungrily gathered up the journals from the ground and scanned the page it had opened to, the page where the marker had been placed. _There must be something of importance here!_

The page was scrawled with sketches of various drawings of a dragon, a slender and beautiful one, if a fire breathing, scaly monster could be called beautiful. The longer he looked at all the drawings, the more it seemed to him that they were drawn most meticulously, each line perfected and each shadow clear and obscuring all the same.

The neck of the beast was sinewy and strong, each muscle defined under a coat of fine, shimmering scales. Small, sharp spines ran down the length of its spine, and the wings were elegantly folded and conveniently covered its back like a cloak. Its limbs, too, were slender and streamlined, and every scale was inked with a radiant green and specks of gold. The spines and headdress of horns looked cream-colored and smooth. _How hard and long did Gustave Daae work to perfect these? Why were they so special to him?_

The man had obviously put special emphasis into the lighting of the pieces, each time positioning the head so that the light was to the right, glinting off wild, clear and black slit eyes. In fact, it seemed as if the light was constant in all the pictures, whether the dragon sat, stood, slept, flew, ate, or cradled an opalescent egg or jewel in its claws. Yes, this sort of beauty was different, but it was entrancing.

_He could only have made the illustrations this detailed if he had time, and…not just his imagination, but also a model to base them off of. How did he spend so much time with one dragon? Did he come from one of those strange places where people breed, train, and sell the creatures? _Perhaps Gustave Daae had been a world traveler before coming to town to raise his daughter- which led back to the question of how Christine had come to be in the world. Did he have a secret relationship with one of the women, who subsequently gave birth to the girl?

_Well, I suppose the matchmaker is as good a place to start as any._

…

Nadir watched from a distance of several miles as the human Christine and Erik settled down to sleep again. It was one of his gifts as a Persian dragon, to perceive what happened far away though his eyes could not physically look. His reflecting pool did quite a good job of replacing a spyglass or an actual spy, and perhaps even better than the two aforementioned items.

Their bond was obviously special, with no known precedent, and he would know too, would he not? He was at least a good thousand years older than Erik, a decent age to be, as he was considered wise and constant to many humans. The odd bond between the dragon and the human girl was a close one, despite their short time together.

His keep eyes did not miss the slight shimmer along Christine's spine, and the way she was more graceful than most small, clumsy humans. Was she part elf, or perhaps faerie? It was possible, for some of the humanoid folk interbred freely without prejudice or shame, and left their excessively shiny marks on their offspring. If she was not fully human, that blood must have been diluted by several generations, at least.

It irked him slightly that he could not hear through the reflecting pool as well. He would have given one of his claws to hear what they were saying to each other. It also intrigued him that Christine should be allowed to sleep not only near the temperamental lizard, but also on him, resting on his side, leg, and tail. Nadir had known Erik for several centuries, and had never been allowed the slightest brush of hide in jest or otherwise. Maybe the rules and relations between them were different, because she was a different species.

Or maybe he was simply fond of her.

The thought was quite unsettling. Their bond was probably unhealthy, but as Nadir looked on, he glimpsed a definite affection in the black dragon's eyes. No, he would let them be happy for a little longer, at least until the council meeting. Erik deserved at least that much, after being put through so much in his comparatively short lifetime.

The meeting would likely be the end of the peculiar friendship.

…

Christine had closed her eyes and kept very still, but couldn't quite get comfortable lying on her back. It felt like the bumps and ridges of Erik's tail were digging into her spine. His leg and flank was decidedly more comfortable. Careful not to disturb him, she crawled a few feet away and stood, stretching and trying release the tension from her back. She bent forward and rolled her shoulders-

Her stretching froze mid-yawn as a strange itch sped down her spine. A night breeze cooled the area, which felt like strong vodka had been dripped down the line of her bones.

Long, empty feet away, Erik's eyes snapped open. The soft, muted splitting of skin was not a sound he usually heard in the night, not even with another creature sharing his residence. _Christine? Are you hurt? _He tasted the air for blood, but found none.

Her trembling voice replied: "N-no… At least, I- I think not."

_Let me see. Is it a scrape, or have you broken aught?_

"I know not- please, do not trouble yourself. Go back to sleep," she bid, close to tears and desperately hiding it. What strange and disturbing things were happening, that she should feel her skin part and feel no pain?

She scrabbled at the papery, slightly moist folds of split skin down the center of her back and felt bile rise in her throat as her mind rebelled against the idea of injury without sensation. It was simply not logical, and it made her afraid. Erik sensed her fear and did not go back to sleep as she had told him to.

He curled the end of his tail around her waist to steady her and turned her about, so he could see what was the matter. _What is this? _Christine at last let tears fall from her eyes, hugging herself as if to keep her sobs in.

"I do not know," she moaned despondently. "Am I dying? Am I ill with some magic sickness? Have I grown too fat for my skin?" she continued, almost hysterical. She dissolved into a fearing mess of

The dragon sniffed at the long ridge of bony spines that extended from the base of her skull to the tip of her tailbone, tapering at the ends in an almost graceful manner. It smelled odd, sharper and harsher than her usual scent; as if the dragon in it had been magnified, and the human diminished. _Keep yourself within yourself, Christine. You are not dying, and you are most certainly not fat. You are a healer, and you should know at any rate that it is impossible to explode because of fat._

His harsh, grumpy voice shook her out of her crying, and she scrubbed at her damp cheeks. "I- then what is happening? Erik, tell me!" Her usually smooth voice cracked in desperation.

He looked again at the folds of skin that had seemingly peeled away from the hard protrusions. The words were stuck in his mind and for a moment, refused to emerge for his amazement. Never had he heard, read, or seen any phenomena such as this. Then quietly and nearly inaudibly, he said, _Your spine is like mine now. I know nothing of happenings such as this, but- you appear to be turning into a dragon._


End file.
